Crashing Down
by nitefang
Summary: Things go down the night before the 10 Year Class Reunion, literally and figuratively, and Puck had never been happier.


**I have a thesis, an exam, a screenplay, a test, and research paper to do. But I heard Nick Jonas and Demi Lovato's "Avalanche" and threw all that shit out the window. Also going out the window was my utter inability to write Puck and Rachel since "Grape Slushie Affair."**

**It all came…**_**crashing down.**_

* * *

><p>Noah Puckerman was never one for details, never one to care about meaningless things. As far as he was concerned, the Devil was in the details—the Devil who'd tell him to do dumb shit like put even a sliver of hope on a grape slushie and a smile that was too real for Broadway.<p>

But when he saw the shape of her calves, the curve of her back, the small and untamable curl the edge of her hair took, the bounce in her step, the loud and distinctive laugh that bubbled out… He decided he would sell his damn soul to the Devil just to spend the rest of his life taking in every detail of her—of Rachel Berry.

'Course, he would rather the choir room and Schuester and most of the other Gleeks stay in the past and out of his contract with ol' Lucifer, but if it was a package deal, he'd take it in a heartbeat's stutter.

Ten years hadn't changed much. It aged 'em all, sliced on a couple wrinkles here and there, weighed down their shoulders a little more. Deep down, though, even Puck and his non-detail-noticing ways could tell they were the same ragtag crew in ripped-up jeans with a sad fascination with Journey, who managed to rule the world, even for just a little while.

He'd need about twenty shots of booze before he'd admit it, but when he walked into that choir room, the last to have arrived, it kinda took his breath away. There was Satan and Brittany, chairs tipped toward each other as they laughed about something. There was Quinn, Mercedes, and Blaine _ooh-_ing over something Kurt was showing them on his phone. Matt, Mike, and Tina sat on top of the piano, Artie at the keys, plunking out a familiar song. Sam and Schue were sitting on the stools, guitar and ukulele strumming gently, while Finn idly spun a drumstick between his fingers, laughing with Blaine and the girls when Kurt scowled at something on his phone. Then there she was—with her hair, her calves, her big brown eyes, and the smile too perfect for Broadway—on the stool between Sam and Schue, another acoustic guitar on her lap as she tried to pluck along with the boys.

And as soon as he strode through the doors, a hand twirling a set of keys and the other in his pocket, they all turned or looked up to see him and grinned—and that was when his breathing mechanisms shorted out for a few seconds. Because no matter what stupid shit they got into or put each other through, these assholes were as much his family as Ma and Bekah.

It was the night before their class reunion and even though some of them weren't part of that particular graduating class—well, apparently that wasn't enough excuse to exclude them from a Glee reunion. For a while, Puck dreaded it because God only knew what kind of dirty laundry would get aired out of a decade-old closet. God only knew what kind of drama these people could scrounge up in a single night. God only knew what could happen.

But then he was like, _Fuck that_, because who wanted to live asking those kinds of questions? God only knew what, how, who—_who the fuck cared?_ Certainly not him.

So he bought the goddamn plane ticket and sent his RSVP and emailed Schue to not hold out much hope for him showing up, no promises—just to throw them off his scent. Satan texted him, _I promise to whoop your ass if you don't show up, asshole. _Mike left him a voicemail simply saying, "Don't be a dick. You better come." Sam called him over and over just to say, "You're coming." But when Rachel Berry called him and asked if he was coming, he sighed and said, "Yeah, yeah, yeah."

So, honestly, they really shouldn't have looked so damn surprised when he showed up, but he was happy with the welcome regardless.

* * *

><p>It was easy to lapse back into the way they were with each other all those years ago, little cogs falling back into place in the machine even though they were a little rusted and dusty. As soon as music started playing, like oil in the gears, the old-ass clunker shuddered back to life and started turning again.<p>

Classics like Hall and Oats, Journey, and Destiny's Child propelled them into the night; Katy Perry, Bruno Mars, and Maroon 5 made it back onto the rotation. They played songs that launched them back into the white-gold years that they could only remember fondly. The choreography resurfaced, thanks to Mike, Brittany, and even Matt—Finn was still as inept as he was back then, no more and no less. Harmonies were set aside, as they all just sang together for the hell of it.

It'd take another ten shots on top of the original twenty before Puck would ever admit that this was the most fun he'd had in years.

The songs slowed down as the night reached toward the a.m. People started trickling out from there, sung out by remaining members. Schue, Artie, and Mercedes were the first to go, then Kurt and Blaine, Mike and Tina, the Unholy Trinity, and then Matt, Sam, and Finn, who were planning on celebrating their newly-christened bachelorhood at a bar.

Puck wouldn't be able to say why Rachel stayed behind with him; just like he wouldn't be able to say why he stayed behind with her. Maybe it wasn't even a matter of someone staying behind with someone else—it was a matter of not wanting to leave the other one yet. They barely even hung out one-on-one that didn't involve some sort of physical interaction, but even after ten years, twenty, fifty, or a century and a quarter, there was something built into their very _existences_ that drew them to each other.

They'd played out the boys on the piano, with a sweet rendition of "Can You Feel the Love Tonight," so once the trio disappeared down the corridor, Puck and Rachel were left shoulder-to-shoulder on the bench. His every exhale had him curling closer to her, and her every inhale had her pressing closer to him until they were practically turned toward each other, still plunking out soft harmonies.

"You know what I miss most?" she asked after a few minutes of gentle melodies.

"What?"

"How big everything was—life, dreams, problems." She laughed, shaking her head. "Even music numbers that weren't for competitions."

He snorted, nodding. "'Singing in the Rain' and 'Umbrella.'"

"Exactly. Water all over the stage, raining down…"

"Nearly slipped and cracked my head, my ass, or my face so many times."

"But you held it together like a champ," she pointed out, nudging his hand away as she reached for a lower key.

"You got relegated to the back most of the time since you could barely stay vertical," chuckled Puck. "Used that umbrella more to walk properly instead of spinning it around and shit."

"I'm pretty sure my hip is still not properly in its socket because of that set," she grumbled. "The mashup didn't even make sense."

"I stopped expecting shit to make sense the longer I knew Schue."

She looked at him and laughed, her eyes crinkling—warmth, strength, gentleness, and fire swirling into a deep brown that was all Rachel Berry. He was so close to kissing her, the only thing that would ever make him want to interrupt her laughs.

"In his defense, he was still a Spanish teacher at the same time, who had to deal with Sue Sylvester and his own personal dramas," she said. "I can totally understand why his song choices weren't often coherent."

"Just say he's an idiot and call it a night, baby."

She laughed again, missing a key and thumping a discordant note. "Fine—he's an idiot."

His smile softened as he looked at her, still pulling music out of the massive instrument in spite of her slaphappy giggles. She noticed his still fingers and looked up at him.

Something passed between them then—something tangible and strong and still fresh. Her smile matched his, and something in his stomach smoothed out, thrumming and alive. Its partner coursed across her face as she relaxed even more so than she already had. She let the look linger for a second longer before turning back to the piano to play a melody that he didn't quite recognize.

"_Words like a loaded gun,"_ she sang. _"Shot out from a fire tongue. Love lost from fight that was won."_

And it smacked him in the face, breaking him out of his mood briefly—the song Bekah had on repeat for an entire weekend he visited a long time ago. A power ballad duet between some old tween pop stars.

"_And I can see it breaking down, the end to a falling out."_

He didn't know enough of the chords to go off on, and he wasn't proficient to just pick it up from what he'd seen of her play. He remembered enough of the lyrics though. The damn song was stuck in his head weeks after.

"_I got pride you can't hold your breath,_" he sang, making her start and look up at him. _"We'll crash down like an avalanche. Look out now, don't take one more step. We'll crash down like an avalanche."_

Grinning, she started to play with both hands. _"I never wanted to turn out this way. Now forever feels like yesterday. Sorry something that I just can't say. Can you see me breaking down? The end to a falling out."_

"_I got pride you can't hold your breath."_

"_Even if we survive."_

"_We'll crash down like an avalanche."_

"_Crash down, crash down."_

"_Look out now, don't take one more step."_

"_Even if we survive."_

"_We'll crash down like an avalanche, avalanche."_

"_Crash down, crash down."_

"_We'll crash down, yeah. Like an avalanche."_

She let the melody taper out even though the song wasn't over, and she wasn't even able to finish before he reached around to cup her face as he leaned in to kiss her. Another discordant note was a twinge through the room, leverage as she surged up to meet him. Rachel Berry—zero to a hundred-sixty, spark to an inferno.

Every girl he'd kissed was a practice—an unemotional trial run, a chore, the initial sound of the chords first being played. Rachel was the real deal, the one that made his blood boil, made his heart hammer; she strung the chords together into a flow that hummed through his fucking soul. Just by a kiss.

"_Noah."_

_God_, he'd missed her so much.

She smoothed her fingertips along his cheeks, skimming his ear, and digging into his close-cropped hair before scraping her nails along the nape of his neck, the tip of her tongue tracing a line along his own. He sucked on her lip, nibbling the way he remembered she liked as she pulled herself onto him. He braced his feet on the floor, pushing the bench back so she had enough space to maneuver herself onto his lap, her violet dress bunching at the top of her thighs—newly-exposed territory he immediately began to explore.

She pulled her lips from his, but before he could try to get them back, she'd pressed them against his jaw. Anatomically possible or not, it was like his spine nearly collapsed out of alignment. The pressure of her open-mouthed kisses on his skin alone nearly had him toppling off the bench, but when she started to suck and nibble along his neck, he had to grip the underside of the keyboard to keep from falling back.

With a groan, he wrapped an arm around her waist and kept her knees along his hips with his other hand as he pushed himself up and set her on top of the keys, cupping her face and kissing her deeply, threading his fingers through her hair and brushing her cheeks with his thumbs and stroking her jaw.

"Are we—going to recreate—_Pretty Woman_?" she whispered between kisses.

He pulled back long enough to look her in the eye—though that nearly had him pulling back in to kiss her again. Cheeks flushed, lips swollen, lids at half-mast—this woman was not pretty, she was _beautiful_. _Wonderful. Glorious. _

"Do you want to?" he asked.

She bit her lip.

_Sweet Jesus. _

He couldn't remember the setup of the _Pretty Woman _scene, even if he wasn't preoccupied reacquainting himself with Rachel's lips, but he was pretty sure climbing on top of the piano was out of the question. Instead, he lifted her up again, her arms going around his neck as her legs—_God Almighty_, those legs he could worship for the rest of his days—locked around his hips. He heard her heels drop onto the floor behind him as he walked around to set her on the edge of the piano.

He stood between her legs, taking deep breaths as she rested her forehead against his, her fingertips skimming his forearms as he stroked her thighs.

"_Rachel."_

She hummed softly.

He licked his lips. "This isn't just—I'm not—you and me—"

She cut him off with a kiss that had him tugging her flush against him.

"Yeah. Yeah, I know," she muttered so close to his mouth that every work was another kiss on his lips. "I'm not planning on leaving you tonight or any other night for the foreseeable future. Are you in agreement?"

He nodded. "Full agreement. Total acquiescence. Whatever."

She laughed and fisted his shirt, pulling him down into another kiss.

* * *

><p>They moved slowly because her acceleration was off the charts didn't mean she didn't know how to bring it back to cruising speed, didn't mean she didn't know how to maintain.<p>

He got her off with his fingers and his tongue on that piano—her dress at her waist, her hands at his head, her lacy lavender panties in his back pocket—but refused to go any further because as much as he wanted to christen that choir room, he wasn't about to have his first time with Rachel in that godforsaken place.

The way she held him and clung to him and pulled him into her wasn't frantic or needy. It was a deep yearning, a slow burning, the heat on high and constant.

He laid her on her bed and took his time, just as she took hers, flipping him over and nearly sending him slipping off the side before pinning him down with her hips. Stifled giggles, muffled moans, and soft gasps wafted around the dim room, the pink and white frills and lace replaced with flowers and gemstone colors.

It was a stark contrast from the haphazard tumble of 10th grade, but at the same time, it wasn't. They were still the same people bringing the same kind of passion to the table. It was _still_ just as easy to crash together, still easy to fall into the rhythm they barely explored.

She pulled off his clothes before he could hers, spending long seconds kissing every newly-exposed portion until he was a quivering mess underneath her. He pulled off her dress as she straddled his hips, palming her smooth shoulders before sliding down to cup her breasts, his calloused fingers drawing shivers and goosebumps along her skin. He smoothed his hands down her stomach, detouring back to rub his fingertips along the dimples on the base of her back, just above the swell of her ass. He kneaded the joints of her hips with his thumbs, making her squirm and arch back.

* * *

><p>She kissed him as if she was taking nibbles from a thousand-dollar cake, savoring every rich bite and letting it linger for as long as she could. He held her so naturally and so easily, a part of himself that had been separate but had seemingly reintegrated like no time had passed at all. They moved so slowly, the rhythm easy so easy it'd be impossible to fumble or lose. The song buried deep, the melody and harmony resonating through skin, muscle, and bone.<p>

The song hit its crescendo, and they were lost. No going back, no new directions—just an old one that they'd ignored for so long but had waited for them.

* * *

><p>She lay on her stomach, hands tucked under her pillow, her face to him. The sheets pooled around her hips, his fingertips strumming the dip of her spine. It took a few minutes of his soft touches for her to stir, her eyes flickering open as she hummed.<p>

"Morning," he murmured, laying on his side, propped up on one elbow.

She crawled closer so they were chest to chest again before she kissed him, sweet and half-awake. "_Good_ morning," she said.

"_Great_ morning," he corrected her, dropping a kiss on her nose.

"HORRIBLE MORNING!" barked Leroy Berry from outside the bedroom door.

Hiram Berry, on the other hand, wasn't nearly as upset. "Noah, would you like orange or apple juice with breakfast? Also—we're having rotisserie chicken tonight—would you like mojo or lemon pepper?"

Rachel groaned and buried her face against Puck's chest. "How did you even know?" she called.

"Hard to miss when we hear you shrieking his name, Rachel!" cried Leroy.

"As happy as we are that you two are finally together, we'd rather not find out in the middle of the night, sweetheart," said Hiram. "Now, Noah—about the juice and chicken?"

"Apple and lemon pepper, sir," called Puck, chuckling and nudging his nose against Rachel's hair, inhaling deeply.

"Okeydokey. You two are going to have to come down to eat, though."

"Fully dressed!"

Rachel groaned again as her fathers' footsteps thudded away. "You're not…regretting anything, are you?"

Puck leaned back, pretending to think. "Well, we weren't drunk."

"No…"

"We're not doing this to make anyone jealous."

"No. Where are you going with—"

"And we're grown-ass adults who decided that it's high time to accept our God-mandated destiny to continue the bloodlines and—"

"Noah!" She smacked his chest and rolled them over so she could straddle him again, only this time she rolled them both right off the bed, crashing onto the floor.

"YOU DID THIS ENOUGH LAST NIGHT!" screeched Leroy, his voice just as loud from the kitchen as if he was outside their door. "TAKE A DAMN BREAK!"

Puck laughed from where he was on his back, Rachel on his chest. He grinned up at her. "I could wake up like this every morning."

"On the floor with me on top of you?"

"And naked, yes. Though I could skip the falling. Let's keep that shit figurative instead of literal."

Rachel smiled, so wide that it practically infected the rest of her body, and yeah, okay. He'd do this falling shit literally and figuratively anytime for her.


End file.
